He was forbidden.
It was one of the few powers he didn’t possess: he could not directly take a life. Bargain for a soul, yes; perform a miraculous act, absolutely; but not directly end a life. No matter, he would still be there to receive the fruits of death. And death always came, sooner or later. And besides, if he did possess the power to annihilate uncounted numbers, where would the fun be in that? If there were no more people to corrupt, there would be no more souls to reap.
His was a deeper goal, one with a far longer-lasting impact.
And that’s where Thal came in. It was a simple way around Finster’s problem: man could kill man. If anyone was to renege on a deal or go back on a promise, Thal would be there to add that little bit of umph that would shorten their stay on terra firma.
Never had they met, Finster would never take that chance. But he watched. Thal was the closest thing he had ever seen to a creature without a soul. No remorse, no hesitancy at any task. Thal’s was a spirit buried deep down within the most malevolent primal area of the human heart. But of late, Finster was seeing a weakness. The cop, the one called Busch. Thal seemed fixated on him, driven by a personal desire that Finster had not seen before in his private assassin. And it ate at his mind, clouding Thal’s abilities. Finster sensed a momentary failure on Thal’s part. His efficiency had never before been in question, but this day it was. The simple hit should have been completed and Finster should have received word by now. No matter, Finster’s confidence in Thal may have been shaken but it still remained. Thal would succeed and, worse-case scenario, if he kept the three alive and busy until tomorrow, that would be just as well. For tomorrow, Finster would be gone.
There would be no good-bye, no adieu, no auf Wiedersehen. Come tomorrow, he would simply vanish. No trace of his whereabouts. His disappearance would surely come to be known as one of the world’s great mysteries. Like Amelia Earhart, nary a clue left behind. There would be no heirs, no will for the vast fortune created in less than ten years. Not a relative would be unearthed, no parents, no birth records. No friends from childhood, no close associates, no wives or children. Of course, many a pretender would surface, but no legitimate kin would ever lay claim.
No answers. Only questions.
Chapter 29
The woods around Waldberg were darker than night. These were the forests of the Brothers Grimm, where Hansel and Gretel strode the same path as Red Riding Hood, the wolf always lurking just beyond the bush. It was no wonder that the dark legends and fairy tales were born here. The forbidding canopy blocked any view of the sky. The giant branches of ancient trees reached out to steal the breath from your lungs. The ghostly stillness stoked a primal fear that brought forth witches, trolls, and goblins of the wood. It was fitting that Finster’s estate sprang from this ground. Its entrance gates were five kilometers up the road, the only sign of civilization for the next ten.
Paul Busch emerged from the Mercedes C-Class, the unmarked car of choice for the German police. A portable flashing light was affixed to the roof right above the driver’s door, the spinning red glow casting wicked shadows on the evergreen trees. Busch sauntered up to the scarlet convertible. The driver was a beautiful woman in a pair of black Vuarnet sunglasses. Her black hair was, surprisingly, only slightly tousled from the wind. Up close, she was more than beautiful; she was stunning.
“Guten Abend, Fraulein,” Busch said, with a pathetic attempt at a German accent.
Audrey didn’t look up as she rifled her purse for her license and registration. “Guten Abend, Herr Kommissar. Gist es cin Problem?”
“Sprechen sie Englisch?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact—” But the words froze in her throat when she recognized Herr Kommissar.
“License, please.” She handed it to him with just a hint of disgust. “How did it go?” Busch asked.
“He went home with Vaughn, I haven’t heard from her yet.”
“Did he suspect?”
“Look, I know what I’m doing. All you asked me to do was meet him, tease him, lead him on, and leave him dry.”
“So how did you do?”
“I’m back for seconds, aren’t I? I made him desire that which he did not attain last night. Just like you asked.”
“Like I paid for,” Busch admonished. He glanced at the name on the license and chuckled. “Miss Charm?”
“Give me a break.”
“Isn’t it a crime to impersonate someone?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she shot back. Busch’s eyes knocked her down. Audrey was her real name it, but her last name…Well, she was saddled with the unfortunate moniker of Lipschitz and that wasn’t something she was about to share.
Busch had hooked up with Audrey just before he picked up Michael from prison yesterday. She came on a good recommendation from not only the Berlin police but the dean of the club circuit, someone by the name of Christian Croix. Busch really wasn’t sure if Christian was a boy or a girl—he/she was some kind of gendernaut hovering in-between macho and pretty, a muscled torso stretching an angora T-shirt. Christian was the de facto head of the clubbies, the German twentysomethings who ruled the night. What they said was in was in and what they said was out was finished, dried up, shut down. Audrey and Vaughn were well-known clubbies worshipped for their dancing, their matching clothes, their sexual talent, and their ability to make a living off of the weakness of others. Christian gave up Audrey’s number—after throwing a tantrum—upon threat of arrest for possession of mescaline.
Busch met her in a pub, explained the situation, how she could make a fast buck for doing what she did best and at the same time keep herself out of prison. Not that he could act on the threat: his jurisdiction ended on the other side of the Atlantic. Busch had researched Finster’s habits, his tastes. He had memorized the dossier on the plane; it was all so well documented. Audrey would make fitting bait. Busch paid her an even grand to get into Finster’s pants but not touch. She wouldn’t have a difficult time finding him. Finster loved clubs and there was always a buzz created by the clubbies as to the in place for the night.
Audrey didn’t breathe a word of it to her friend Vaughn, who was more than a bit surprised when Audrey bowed out of last night’s after-dance activities with Finster. She feigned illness but kept up the seductive charm, securing a rare second date with the industrialist.
“I don’t see you writing a ticket,” Audrey pointed out to Busch.
“Time for Part Two,” he replied. “I need my last and final favor.”
“Shall I use my hand or my mouth?”
“Bribery? That’s a very serious offense. Worse than speeding, worse than prostitution.”
“I’m all out of favors.” She rubbed her fingers together, expecting payment.
“It would be a shame if you had to spend the night in jail.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to take him somewhere.”
“Who?” she asked, knowing full well who they were talking about.
“Enough with the games.” Busch flashed a roll of cash.
“Where?” she asked in a tired voice, her eyes glued to the money.
He handed her a sheet of paper.
She glanced at the club flyer. “What, is there going to be a raid or something?”
“Nothing of the sort. No police action, no harm to anyone. It’s a new place, my friend owns it,” he lied. “It’s hot, impossible to get in, and he’s better than a ticket.”
“If I refuse?”
“There’ll be consequences.”
“What’ll you do: arrest me?”
“I’ll tell him that you were spying on him. For some reason, I don’t think he’ll take kindly to that.” He let his answer hang in the night for a moment.
Audrey sat there stewing. Between what Busch was paying and what she could get out of Finster, she could go to Nice for the rest of the summer and that did have its appeal. She knew the cop’s money was too good to be true—if he was a
cop, which she sincerely doubted. Her mother always told her that if you dance with the Devil you pay the price. “How am I going to get him there?”
“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that. Just use your feminine prowess.” He handed her the wad of bills. “For your trouble.”
Without so much as another glance, she started up the convertible and drove off toward Finster’s.
Four and a half kilometers up the road, the black Audi was tucked into the woods, the engine cool, its body covered in pine boughs. Simon had taken up a position behind a berm, his binoculars fixed on a pair of forbidding black gates. The gates were of a classic design, decorative black iron hinged into massive stone columns. The ornamentation ran to the Gothic, cherubs dancing through wrought iron gardens, gargoyles riding the upper rails. Twin pairs of gas lanterns were mounted upon the columns. Their flames cast only a dim glow, long shadows shimmering up and down the winding drive. Simon had never seen this entrance’s equal. These were security gates in every sense of the word.
It had been two hours since the gates had swung open to admit the fire-engine red Fiat, a raven-haired beauty behind the wheel. Simon fought to keep his mind in check. While he had never broken his vow of celibacy, he’d spent many an hour saying the Act of Contrition for his thoughts. The gates had slammed shut quickly behind the Italian roadster. It was a two-second window of opportunity for entrance, but that wasn’t necessary yet. Busch had assured them that the woman would cooperate; she’d lure Finster out of the house. It was only a matter of time. Anyway, they weren’t going in through the gate.
The property was bordered by a fifteen-foot stone wall that ran along its perimeter. When Michael had visited Finster just one week earlier, he had noted that Hiencen laser monitors ran along the wall’s interior wall. Tough to beat, but not impossible. He knew the house security system was produced by Hughes Aircraft, the same system used by the United States military for their high-clearance-level locations. The encryption changed daily. It was a bitch of a system, but again, not impossible. However, there was one element of security he wasn’t ready for; it was not in his training, in fact it was something he had always carefully avoided. On Michael’s previous visit to Finster’s estate, he had noted the staff working about the grounds. Their shoulders were wide, their hips slim, bodies trained and honed by the military. And they were armed to the teeth.
Now he sat patiently with Simon behind the Audi and, though a warm summer breeze blew up the road, a chill ran through him. It was the forest, wilderness all around, yet something was missing: life. There were no sounds of the wild, no birds in the air. The summer nights, usually alive with the crickets’ song, were dead silent. No animals lurked in these trees, nothing crept along this ground. But what caused the greatest dread of all was the absence of bugs. There were no worms in this earth, no flies, no mosquitoes seeking blood. You could usually find a spiderweb, the weaver lying in wait, tucked into the base of most trees, but none were visible here. The insect world was always present. Through feast or famine, war or peace, they were the only living thing present on the planet since the dawn of time. Nothing could wipe them out or drive them away. And yet they were banished from the forests of August Finster.
Hearing a low whistle, Michael spun about just in time to see a black limo—the same limo with the same license plate that pursued him from the airport, her front end repaired and painted—approach down the long road. The halogen lamps cut through the night, lighting up even the deeper reaches of the forest. The giant gates silently yawned open and the Mercedes shot through, picking up speed, entering the road, and flying away into the dark.
The forty-five-minute drive flew by with the help of some alcoholic lubrication. The limo bar, freshly stocked, was nothing but top-shelf: Dom Perignon, Chivas, Moët, and Gray Goose. No beer here. Ice jingled in Tiffany crystal tumblers as the silent outer world of the countryside flew by at one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour. The lights of downtown Berlin were coming into view through the smoked glass like stars cutting through a hazy night sky. Four passengers sat in the limo’s spacious backseat, laughing, that is, all except one. Finster was distant, his mind somewhere else as he watched the night rush past. Finster was filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. The impending realization of one’s dreams can be sobering.
But the mood didn’t last; back to the moment he came, putting his arm around Joy, she of the copper locks. Her bosom was warm and full under his right hand, the cleavage a tad too firm beneath her sheer gingham dress. Silicone. But this didn’t bother Finster; he was well aware of life’s illusions and the masks we all wear. Zoe, a flaxen-haired vision, sat across from Finster, her long legs stretched across the floor, her bare feet squarely in his lap, sipping her third sea breeze of the night. She was a swimmer from the German Olympic team. He loved the way her shoulders filled out her silver lamé blouse.
He was looking forward to tasting the fruit tonight. Joy, the red; Zoe, the blonde; and Audrey, the black-haired beauty seated on his left. Three different flavors for his farewell tryst.
“Where are we headed?” Joy asked.
“Ladies, I leave that to you.”
“Let me pick!” Zoe begged like a child. She was a little drunk.
“No! Me!” Joy pleaded.
Audrey stroked Finster’s cheek, while caressing his body with her own. “I know the perfect place. Brand-new, sensuous, utterly decadent. Heaven on earth.”
“My kind of place,” Finster said.
“Rapture?” Joy’s eyes lit up.
“Rapture?” Zoe hoped.
“Do you think you could get us in?” Audrey purred in Finster’s ear, knowing he could, and, more importantly, knowing he couldn’t resist the challenge.
He sat there silently staring at his mini-harem, their minds loosened, their bodies willing. He was undecided where they would go. Rapture was definitely in, the place to be seen, but Finster wasn’t sure if it should be his last memory of Germany, the land he had grown to love. It was so new he had yet to sample its wares. Was it a night for new or a night for nostalgia?
Dr. Rhineheart sprinted down the hall, two nurses flanking him. An orderly steered the rattling crash cart, fighting to keep pace. They burst into the private hospital room to the sound of high-pitched alarms and hyper pinging. The heart monitor next to the bed was a green static line. Mary St. Pierre was in cardiac arrest, her body motionless upon the bed.
Four hours earlier she was in her car on the way back from the garden nursery, planning to head home for lunch. Instead, she stopped by St. Pius Church in Byram Hills, where she lost herself in prayer. She thanked God for her friends and her life; for the love she felt. She thanked Him for her husband, a man who had put aside his life to pursue her heart. She prayed for strength. Not her strength, but for Michael’s strength, that he would see things through, that he would find the will to carry on after she was gone. She prayed that he would find love again. He was too kind a man to go through life alone, he had too much love to share. She wished him children and happiness and patience. She longed for the chance to live along with him, standing by his side, but she knew now that wasn’t to be. And she wished for the day many years from now when they would be united.
It was only one sneeze, a small one, petite and silent. She covered her mouth as taught so many years before. She teased herself a little as she rummaged in her purse; she’d meant to pick up a small pack of tissues. She’d felt a hint of a cold coming on the night before and knew it could wreak havoc on her weakened immune system. And now that was coming to pass.
She hurried to the car; the glove compartment was always well stocked. She didn’t notice her hand until she opened the car door and reached for the small compartment latch. It wasn’t a lot, just enough to be noticed. Small speckles, freckle-like, already darkening. It was her right hand, the one she had covered her mouth with.
Driving straight to the hospital, she could barely control herself, her hands shaking, a cold sweat break
ing out on her neck. Her fear was back, this time with a vengeance. She needed Michael here, now.
Dr. Rhineheart admitted her, got her set up in a private room. He said it would be a few hours before the test results came back. He said not to worry. Expelling blood orally wasn’t uncommon. The constriction pressure caused by a sneeze created a rupture of the capillaries in the lungs. No other symptoms had manifested themselves, but he would keep her overnight just as a precaution. Again, he told her not to worry, all the signs pointed to a stable condition, she could go home in the morning.
Now, three hours later, Rhineheart affixed the automatic defibrillator to her chest. Flipped the switch. A unisex electronic voice droned from the machine: “Three…two…one…CLEAR.” A Klaxon alarm sounded and a surge of electricity shot through Mary’s body. Her unconscious form arched up in the air; her arm still dangled off the mattress.
In a fraction of a second, she slumped back down in the bed, her eyes still closed, the color drained from her face. Rhineheart leaned in with a stethoscope. Nothing. The heart monitor readout was green and straight, its whine uninterrupted.
He flipped the switch again.
“Three…two…one…CLEAR.”
Again, her body lifted off the bed, this time a fraction higher.
While Mary lay there with her heart as dead as dead could be, her mind raced on. She was lost not in the classic white room with a bright light before her, but rather a dark, cavernous hall. Nondescript and quiet. She felt nothing—no pain, no joy. Nothing. She could vaguely hear the calls of Dr. Rhineheart somewhere far away. He was working feverishly on someone—she hoped he was successful. She walked the hall trying the various doors, finding each locked. Somewhere close by she heard the murmur of voices, hushed and nondescript. She wandered toward the sound, the tone and cadence growing more distinct as she advanced. She came to the end of the hall where it ended in a classic T. The crowd—it was surely that—sounded as if it was behind every door, there must be thousands of people. Left or right, she wasn’t sure which way to go when a terrific sharp pain struck her, racing through her veins. Like a fire wire, the pain laced its way through her skin.
The Thieves of Heaven Page 31
